Alistair leans against the wall, arms folded. (He's going for casual. It doesn't look it: it's obviously nothing but a means for him to stay upright.) Several long moments pass where all he does is study Cullen.

There has to be something -- some twitch, some gap in the illusion, something --

"Why him?" When he's not trying to push the volume of his voice -- to sound authoritative, to demand an explanation, to force his words to bear himself up on his last bit of strength -- it comes out as a hoarse croak. "There's dozens of other faces you could've picked. Your friends did. Have. When they put up the pretense at all. Why Cullen this time?"